


Needle in a Haystack

by jadrea



Series: Wasteland Roaming [5]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Aromantic Asexual Character, Brotherhood of Steel (Fallout), Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Commonwealth, Commonwealth Minutemen (Fallout 4), Diamond City, Goodneighbor (Fallout), The Institute (Fallout), The Railroad (Fallout), Wasteland, aroace character, intersection with canon, vault-tec
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29075193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadrea/pseuds/jadrea
Summary: Trying to find anything the Wastes is hard enough, but Fitz Mosby always finds a way to make things more difficult. Not only does he hardly know what he's looking for, he's run out of leads. But he needs to find it, and soon--he's not the only one searching for Vault-Tec's secrets.('Commonwealth Ghost' arc: Episode 5 of 5)
Series: Wasteland Roaming [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874065
Kudos: 1





	1. By the Lanternlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preston Garvey and Piper Wright reluctantly team up to find some answers, and Fitz Mosby finds his way down an abbreviated version of the Freedom Trail.

"How'd you think it would go?" Preston Garvey shouted, over the gunfire.

"Better than this," Piper Wright replied, diving behind a dumpster. "But this is good, it proves I was right!"

"Great." Preston ducked as a bullet caught the top of his hat, nearly knocking it off. "Great, I'm glad we'll die knowing you were right, that's comforting."

The reporter continued as if he hadn't spoken, "I suspected they were using empty buildings around here to dump their goods, I just didn't have any proof. And now-" A glowing green beam shot overhead, "I've got all I need."

Garvey fired a shot at the nearest Gunner, catching them in the shoulder. He grimaced at the pained cry. "Really have better things to be doing than this."

"Come on," Piper called. She fired a few shots of her own, sending a Gunner staggering. "Aren't you Minutemen supposed to be the great defenders of the Commonwealth? What's a few Gunners?"

"You Diamond City folks-" Preston shook his head. "Locked up in your emerald city, you forget how hard life is out here. Stay nice and warm and dry in your homes, while the real battles are fought out in the wastes."

"Say, that's a good one--can I quote you on that? That'll really add some spice to my editorial."

The Minuteman sighed. "Why didn't I just leave you in that cell? I could've, I could've just walked away. But, no, Garvey, you just had to get involved."

"'Despite his inner turmoil, despite all the voices telling him to walk away from the fight, the Minuteman couldn't resist the call for justice. The cry of the innocent, of the wronged.' That's good, keep going."

"I hate to tell you, Wright," he said, "but I'm out of bullets."

"Ah." Her face fell. "That's not what I meant."

"I say we make a break for it. Go back to Diamond City and-"

"And immediately get arrested."

"-and calmly explain what happened, that there was a misunderstanding."

"That's a terrible idea."

"It's not any worse than your idea to walk right up to what you suspected was a Gunner smuggling route."

Piper's frown deepened.

"I guess that's fair," she muttered. "Fine, back to the Piper Suite for me."

"They're not going arrest us if we calmly explain that it was all a big-"

A hastily cut retreat later, Preston Garvey was holding onto the bars of the cell, continuing with his attempted calm explanation, even as the Security guards, one of whom had a swollen jaw, walked away.

"-misunderstanding. It was just a misunderstanding, and I'm truly sorry for the way I reacted, I was out of line-"

"You were out of line, Garvey," the guard snapped. "You're right. And folks who step out of line face the consequences. Now you'll sit here and wait 'til the Mayor figures out what to do with you. Minutemen, ha!"

They turned to Piper. "And you, you'll be lucky if McDonough doesn't throw you out on your ass."

The door slammed behind them.

Piper sat on the bench and crossed her arms. "I'd hate to say I told you so."

"Then don't." Preston pulled off his hand and regarded the new bullet hole that marked the brim. "I'm gonna have a few strong words for Mama Murphy when I get back. 'Go east,' she said. 'Check the settlements,' she said. 'Mosby needs your help'--well, look who needs help now."

"Maybe we'll get lucky and Mosby'll come through to bail us out." The reporter sat forward. "He was here just a few days ago, I sent him to Bunker Hill. We just need to get word out, let him know what happened. Tell him what we found."

"And what exactly was that, Wright? To me, it seems we just found and pissed off a horde of Gunners."

"A horde of smuggling Gunners," she corrected, "who supply the black market here in Diamond City. I've been trying to nail down this story for weeks. And now, I've got an idea of who's behind it. Things only started a few months ago, right around the time that new high-roller showed up. Fink, in the Upper Stands. It was Fink who got me locked up in here, to get me out of the way. Because I knew too much, well, joke's on him!" She shouted at the ceiling, shaking her fist in the general direction of the Stands. "Now I know everything about his little scheme!"

"But you're still locked up."

Her fist fell to her side. "You're not much for fun, are you."

Preston sighed, sat cross-legged on the floor. "The only thing we can do now is wait until that Mayor of yours makes his decision. Have to let the law handle things."

"For all we know, McDonough's on Fink's payroll! We can't leave it up to him. No, we've got to get out of here. I'll try to get a message out to Nat. She saw us dragged in here, any moment now she'll sneak in to see me."

Piper watched the door intently. A few moments passed.

"Any second now."

Preston closed his eyes. "Wake me up when the guards come back."

"Any minute now."

Piper had been slightly off in her estimation--it was two hours before the door creaked open and Nat Wright crept inside.

"Psst, Piper," she whispered.

The reporter hurried over. "Hey, kiddo, what the hell took you so long? Look, you've got to get a message to Mosby, you remember that man who-"

"He's gone."

"Gone."

"He went after you. Then you came back."

"Great." Preston' voice came from behind her, slightly muffled as his hat was tipped down over his face. "That's just great."

*

The Vault Dweller followed a winding path through the city streets. If Phleg didn't know any better, he'd say the man was lost, or drunk, or maybe insane enough to think here and now was the best time for an evening stroll. The Gunner stayed a few yards back, ducking between doorways, keeping his eyes ahead.

He looked away for just a moment at the distant braying of a brahmin a few streets over, and when he looked back the man was gone.

"Aw, fuck-"

"Think you're pretty clever, shitbag?"

From behind, how'd he manage to circle around behind him--

The Vault Dweller caught Phleg by the throat, pushed him back against the splintered deck of a nearby house.

"Thought I lost my shadow when the sun went down." He bared his teeth. "Imagine my surprise when I notice I've picked up another one."

"Don't kill me!"

"Kill you? What a novel idea--I hadn't even considered it. Was just going to let you walk away, but killing you, now that's a good idea."

"I'm just following orders!" Phleg held his hands over his face. "C'mon, man, just doing as I'm told, you know? Didn't mean you any harm-"

"Bullshit."

"It's just Boss wants to know what you're up to, he's real interested in that vault of yours, I dunno why-"

"Vault of mine," the Vault Dweller repeated. "The hell are you talking about?"

"You're the Vault Dweller, and-wait, aren't you supposed to have that funny glowing thing on your wrist?"

"Vault Dweller--I'm not the Vault Dweller." The hands on Phleg's throat tightened their grip.

"Aw, fuck-"

"You idiot, you've been following the wrong person."

"Boss' gonna have my head, I told him you were dead-"

"Well, I'm not," Fitz Mosby snarled.

"After Goodneighbor, lost your trail. Thought you went six feet under-"

"Well, I didn't." Mosby didn't bother with his hunting rifle, the other looked scared enough as it was. Seemed extra persuasion wouldn't be necessary. "Who's got you following me?"

"Boss-"

The hands tightened again, and Phleg choked.

"Fink! Boss Fink, hired us Gunners to follow-"

"Gunners? Same Gunners terrorizing settlements up north, looking for something in these godforsaken ruins?"

Phleg's eyes rolled. "Well, the, uh-"

"What're you looking for, huh? Some kind of weapon?"

"How do you know-" The Gunner quickly stopped himself. "I mean, I don't know anything about no weapon."

Maybe that persuasion would be needed after all. Mosby drove a knee into the Gunner's groin, and the man doubled over.

"Tell me what you know."

"Boss wanted us to find that Vault Dweller," Phleg groaned, "thought he might know something he shouldn't. Something about that weapon."

"And how would the Vault Dweller know that?"

"I'm not fuckin'- _ooof!_ " Mosby's curled left fist struck a glancing blow off the Gunner's jaw. "The Vault! Because 'a the Vault, something on the terminals!"

Mosby's teeth were clenched so tightly he had to pry them apart to speak. "Project Summanus."

"I don't know anything about that, honest, I don't-"

Mosby raised his fist again, and Phleg cowered.

"It's some weapon from back before the war. Vault-Tec made it and hid it, it's some energy thing, I don't know-"

"Seems like you actually know a lot about it, shitbag."

"This time I ain't lyin', really, I swear!"

Mosby paused for a moment, and the sound of his teeth grinding was audible outside his head. "Fink know somebody at the Combat Zone? Big mean-looking guy with a thing for chems?"

Phleg's gaze darted over Mosby's shoulder. "What's-"

"There's nothing there, shitbag, nice try. Combat Zone. Chems. Fink. Talk."

"Regis. Boss of the Gunners."

"Keep going."

"That's all I-- _huff!_ Fine, fuck, just stop hittin' me! Fink hired Regis to find that weapon I don't know nothing about. Based out of the Combat Zone right now."

"And Kellogg?"

"Don't know nothin' about Kellogg, and that's the sky honest truth! He's bad news, I stay far away from anything to do with that name."

"Where's this weapon?"

"If we knew where it was, we wouldn't still be searching for it."

"You wanna be a smartass, do you, Gunner?" Mosby reached down and ripped the laser pistol from its holster. Phleg tensed, but the gun was thrown across the street, skittering across the pavement.

Mosby leaned close. "You go back to Fink and Regis and whoever, and you tell them them shouldn't'a made an enemy of Fitz Mosby. You tell 'em I'll find that damn weapon before they do, just to spite 'em. Just so they can't have it. Just so I can get the pleasure of killing 'em with it."

Phleg's eyes nearly popped from his sockets. "You're crazy, man."

Mosby didn't blink, didn't breathe. "Do it."

He watched Phleg scramble away, the Gunner nearly tripping over himself in his haste.

Well, he'd made his threats, he'd said his piece. Now was a matter of delivering. How the fuck was he going to find a weapon he knew nothing about, in an endless sea of junk and ruin? How the hell could he find what the Gunners hadn't managed to track down over weeks, months, who knows how long of searching?

Like a goddamn needle in an irradiated haystack.

Before he could dwell too long on the bitch of a situation he'd gotten himself into, there was a squealing shriek from a few blocks away. A brahmin making its fear and displeasure known. Normally he would've ignored it, could've ignored it, but it was followed by gunshots, some zinging lasers, others the quick rat-a-tat of an automatic pistol. And that sound, that fucking sound that would be his undoing--a scream, cut short.

"God damn it," he said aloud, drawing his rifle and jogging toward the sounds.

The first thing he heard as he rounded the corner was, "-synth, get him!"

A pack of raiders had two travelers pinned down, one of whom was bleeding bad from her head, the other who held a pistol but didn't appear to know how to use it. Across the street, within the ruins of an old general store, came the majority of the gunshots. Mosby counted five raiders inside.

He almost talked himself into walking away. Was able to flirt with the idea of it, of wiping his hands of the trouble before he even got involved in it. But trouble always found him, no matter how he tried to weasel out of it, so, sighing, Mosby lined up his shots and had two of the raiders down before they knew what hit them.

He caught the third in the middle of their surprised, "What the fu-"

Now lacking the advantage in numbers, the other raiders would be more ruthless, knowing they no longer had the upper hand. If they were going down, they were taking their opponents, especially if one was a synth, down with them.

Mosby fired at the fourth, missed, swore, and fired again. He was in the midst of reloading as the woman with the bleeding head took out one of the final raiders, leaving just one. One very angry, very determined raider.

They came running full tilt out the front of the store, and it took a moment for Mosby to identify what was in their hands. A bundle of grenades, pins pulled out. And the raider's intended target, it seemed, was the man who held a pistol like you held a fragile relic, unwilling to put more than your fingertips on it, lest you accidentally shatter it.

Mosby swore again. He squinted, drew in a breath, held it--and fired.

_Ka-BOOOM!_

Bits of what was once a raider flew past his head, a burst of fire lit the ground where the figure had last stood.

That was close, too close. He was getting rusty. Maybe had something to do with being recently undead.

"You alright over there?" he called, unwilling to emerge from behind cover until he was sure any surviving shooters weren't too trigger-happy.

There was a crash, and Mosby saw a waste bin fly past. He peered over to see the woman had given it a vicious kick.

"Damn it," she spat, holding her head. "They jumped us. I should've been more careful--fuck. This route's compromised."

Mosby assumed they were talking about trade routes. He shouldered his rifle and stepped out from behind the tree.

"Head up that way." He pointed to the east. "Over in Bunker Hill, they'll be able to point in the right direction. They keep their routes clean and clear of raiders."

She gave him an odd look. "Why'd you help us?"

"Seemed like you needed it."

Her eyes narrowed. "Do you have a Geiger counter?"

"I've got some Rad-X I'd be willing to part with--for a few caps, of course."

"You're not--hmm," she said, mostly to herself. The man stood behind her, eyes darting around as if he expected more bullets to rain down upon them.

Mosby waited and, when the woman didn't speak, cleared his throat. "Well I'd best be heading on, and you should, too. That gunfire would've-"

She interrupted him.

"Do you believe that synths deserve respect, to be treated like anyone else? That they're just like you or me?"

This wasn't the first time he'd been accosted with a question like this, though it more often than not was slurred at him by a scavver who'd had one too many to drink. He readied himself for a fight, in case it came, unsure what to expect.

"I believe in somebody fighting for their freedom. Seems like that's what the synths are doing--the ones that aren't mindless Institute killers, that is."

"If you could help those synths that are trapped in the Institute, if you had a chance to get one or two or a dozen into the Commonwealth, to freedom--would you put your life at risk to do it?"

_That was a new one._

Mosby ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth, thinking. It wasn't the answer he was pondering, rather the wording.

"Our freedom's all we have. Caps, junk, power--none of that matters when the end comes. We all deserve a fair chance at freedom. Whether you're a synth or a ghoul, or a human, or whatever."

The woman regarded him for a moment.

Finally, she spoke, "You ain't squeamish, are you?"

"No more than anybody else."

"Gimme your arm." She pulled out a combat knife, and Mosby stepped back.

"Hold it, I don't mean you any harm, I'll just be on my way-"

"If you're a friend to the cause, prove it."

"Friend to what cause? Look, lady, I just heard you were in trouble and helped, that's all. Now's the part where we each go our separate ways."

She lifted her chin. "We're with the Railroad."

Mosby stared at her. Then he laughed. "That's real? I thought that was just a story."

"We're very real, and very undermanned. We could use people like you, willing to fight for what's right."

"I'm not interested in joining up with anybody. Sure, I sympathize, but I've got my own problems."

"You help us, we help you," she insisted. Through the exchange the man behind her stood silently, and Mosby tried not to look at the fear in his face. "The Railroad can help you with whatever problems you have."

As much as he was loath to admit it, he could use all the help he could get. Who knows, maybe the Railroad had a giant magnet that could make finding the needle just a tad easier.

Mosby eyed the knife. "What d'you plan to do with that?"

"We have a system of signs we use to communicate. I'm vouching for you." Her eyes hardened. "Don't make me regret it."

Somewhat reluctantly, Mosby rolled up his sleeve and held out his arm. He winced as the woman carved a cross in the center of his forearm, surrounded it with eight short lines, like rays of sunshine.

"Go to the Old North Church," she said, wiping the blade on her jacket and sheathing it. "Show 'em this and say Bluejay sent you. Maybe they won't blow your head off." She turned to her companion. "Let's go, B9."

The two were already halfway down the street before Mosby finished pulling his sleeve down, before he could ask where the hell it was exactly that he was going. But, with no other leads, it was either this or try and track down Wright and Garvey, wherever the hell they'd gone, to see if they could help. Fuck, he hated asking for help.

So he grudgingly did what he was told.

After hours of wandering in the dark, he found the church, squinting at the weathered bronze plaque by the door to verify he was in the right place. It seemed he was--good, he was getting so damn frustrated of finding the wrong ruined churches, he'd been tempted to burn the next one down if it wasn't the place he sought. The painted lantern by the door was a sign he'd seen before, painted in back alleys and on doors of abandoned buildings. He'd always wondered what it meant.

Guess he'd soon find out.

He pushed the door open, mindful of the super mutants camped just a few yards behind him, and stepped inside. There was an odd green glow all around, emitted by fungus dotting the doorways and baseboards. Otherwise, the church was dark.

He drew his rifle and started forward.

"Hello?" he hissed, to the darkness. "Lookin' for the Railroad. Knock, knock, anybody home?"

The cold barrel of a pistol pressed against the back of his head, and he paused. He was really losing his edge, letting somebody sneak up on him like that.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"You the Railroad?"

"Who's asking?"

Mosby raised his hands, keeping his finger well away from the trigger, and turned. "Name's Mosby. I'm a friend."

A woman in a heavy overcoat looked him up and down. "The hell are you doing here?"

"Redbird sent me."

_No, damn, that wasn't it._

"Bluebird-Bluejay. Bluejay sent me." _Fuck, he's got to get better at listening._ He pushed up his sleeve. "Gave me this."

Her eyes flicked to the sign on his arm, still oozing blood. "Well, well. Guess the little birdy sent us a friend."

"Why isn't she here?" Another voice, from his left. Another woman, with a scarf tied around her neck, her arms crossed, emerged from the darkness. "Bluejay isn't one to trust so easily. How do we know you didn't kill her? Aren't some Institute spy?"

"She gave me this," he repeated. "How the fuck would I know to carve some shit into my arm? 'Sides, she was a bit busy moving somebody along. They got jumped by raiders shouting about synths, had to keep moving unless they wanted to lose their heads. I gave 'em a hand."

The woman regarded him silently, then spoke to a figure just barely visible through the darkness. "You know him, Deacon?"

"Seen him around." A bald-headed man moved to lean against the pulpit, peering at Mosby through sunglasses though the room was barely lit. "He's the rough jobs and blood-spillin' sort. Last saw him in Goodneighbor, and, I'll be honest, pal, thought you bit the big one."

"Well, I didn't," Mosby snapped, quickly losing patience. "I'm not here to infiltrate your little club, I didn't even know you folks existed until Bluebird-fuck, Bluejay, told me. She said you offered help in exchange for help."

"To our friends," the woman replied. "Not to strangers."

"I don't trust him, Dez." The pistol still pointed, unwavering, at Mosby's temple.

After a moment Mosby was almost sure would be his last, the order came. "Stand down, Glory. There's a reason Bluejay sent him, he could be useful."

"Yeah," Mosby agreed, mostly to encourage the pistol to return to Glory's side, "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours."

Glory started to protest, but the woman held up a hand. "Just a moment. Just because we didn't blast you to kingdom come doesn't mean we trust you."

Mosby sighed. "You want me to show you that sign again, seemed like a pretty ringing endorsement to me."

"You need to give us a reason to trust you. If you really did help Bluejay, that's a start. But we'll need a bit more before we drop our guard."

"Fine. Fine, you want caps? I don't have much, but I can find some. Or supplies? I know a guy in Goodneighbor who can get you a hell of a deal on Stimpaks-"

"A supply cache."  
Mosby blinked. "Okay. Gonna need a bit more than that."

"There's a supply cache we need. Secure it and report back. It's in a power station past Quincy, you know the one?"

"Sure."

"Do it." She turned to the man in sunglasses. "Deacon, go with him."

"Hold it." Mosby knew he should shoulder his rifle, quite aware Glory would pump him full of bullets should he give her even the slightest reason, but his irritation prevented him from completing the motion. "I work alone."

"If you want our help, you'll do as I say. I suggest you get going, we won't wait forever."

Without another word, Mosby turned for the door, muttering under his breath about the bullshit he put up with to find the bullshit needle in the bullshit haystack.

The woman held Deacon back for a moment.

"Watch him," she instructed. "See how he fights, how he operates. And if he so much as touches anything in that cache, kill him."

Deacon gave a lazy salute. "Yes, ma'am."

He turned after Mosby. "Hold on, cowboy, wait for me."


	2. Odd Bedfellows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prove your trustworthiness to the Railroad--seems easy enough. Of course, in the Wasteland, nothing's ever as easy as it sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: needle mention

Crossing the Commonwealth proved to be no easy task. Not because they encountered anything too difficult, not because of the terrain or the radstorms--but because his travel companion seemed to find the need to fill every moment with conversation.

"-told him, 'Look, pal, I would, but then I wouldn't get my caps back. You know how weapons dealers are, they dock you for the tiniest scratch.' So I head into Concord-"

"Would you shut the fuck up?"

Deacon laughed. "I see why Bluejay likes you, you're just as jolly as she is."

"Look, I didn't ask for a chaperone. How about we keep the chit-chat to a minimum."

"Alright, cowboy, message received."

Two minutes of blessed silence later, the patter started up again.

"Seen you around Diamond City before, you do a lot of caravans, don't you? Though now it seems you're on a scavenger hunt. What are you looking for, anyway?"

"I didn't demand your life story," Mosby replied, as they waded through a wetland. As if the situation wasn't bad enough, now his socks were soaked. "You Railroad folks really love your interrogations."

"I thought you were just being polite. Figured you'd ask eventually." Deacon cleared his throat importantly. "If you must know, I'm the head of the Railroad. Desdemona puts on the airs of being the boss, but me--I run things behind the scenes. The puppet master. I founded the Railroad a hundred years back. Don't tell anyone-" He lowered his voice, "but I'm actually a ghoul. I've got a great skin care routine so no one's the wiser."

Mosby glanced over and saw the man was stone-faced beneath his sunglasses. Great, he was traveling with a nutjob. Just what he needed.

"That's great, real great. Yeah, I'm actually cursed to transform into a Deathclaw by the light of the full moon." Mosby looked up at the sky and made a performance of wiping sweat from his brow. "Phew, looks like we got lucky tonight."

"The Railroad could use somebody like you." Deacon nodded sagely. "With your...claws and fangs, and everything."

Despite himself, Mosby huffed out a laugh.

"You guys walk a strange line," he said. "Seem dead-set on keeping yourself secret, but you're also desperate to recruit new members. At least, you've got to be desperate to give me a chance."

Ahead of them, Poseidon Energy loomed, a bright point of light in the darkness.

"You didn't hear this from me, but we've been hit pretty hard in recent months. Lost a lot of good people. Could use some more good people to try and fill their shoes."

Mosby raised his rifle and ducked into a crouch as they came into sight of the front entrance. "If you want good people, you're looking in the wrong place. I'm not your man. Just need a favor for a favor, then I'll be on my way."

Keeping an ear out for sudden motion at his back, Mosby led the way into the plant. He knew next to nothing about the Railroad. Its actions were the thing of rumor and mystery, most said it didn't exist at all. On caravan runs, Mosby heard the talk against synths, seen the shifty-eyed figures in heavy coats pause only to buy ammo and Stimpaks and hasten away. He wasn't sure what to think about the Railroad, same as everybody else.

Anybody going against the Institute was to be appreciated, he supposed, as he took out a few ghouls before they had a chance to stand fully upright. But anybody who kept their cards that close to their chest wasn't to be trusted--he should know, he made it a habit to do the same.

So what was this? A test, clearly. Of his trustworthiness, of his loyalty, maybe, if you could even use that word with a shadowy group like the Railroad seemed to be. Of his mettle, to see if he could hold his own--that was more likely. But hold his own against a dozen ghouls? Surely the Railroad faced worse than that. Otherwise this was a joke.

After clearing the second roomful of ghouls and forging ahead, Mosby realized there were some follow-up questions he'd neglected to ask.

"You know where the hell we're going?"

Deacon used the butt of his pistol to put down the final feral and gestured to a blue pod near the ceiling, in the far corner of the room. "Up."

The winding hallways were surprisingly empty, given the ghoul welcome wagon they'd received. They reached the upper story with no trouble, though Deacon seemed to remark about the dust and grime every few feet up the ramps.

There was just one ghoul in the pod, which clambered out from beneath a desk to seize Mosby's ankle. He kicked it off and put two rounds in its head, following them with a third for good measure.

"Fuckin' hate when they do that," he grumbled.

Deacon was just outside the doorway, feeling along the wall for a hidden latch. There was a metallic scrape, and a portion of the wall slid open. "Bingo."

Mosby peered over his shoulder as the Railroad agent did a quick inventory. Enough Stimpaks and ammo in there to keep a small army going. Even a mini nuke. His hand twitched--his right one this time, his fingers itching to slip a few rounds into his pockets.

He let out a sharp sigh and turned away. Much as he hated to say it, he needed their help. Needed help from anybody willing to give it, be they synth detective or underground agents.

"That it?"

"Mm-hmm." Deacon cast him a sideways glance, and pressed the latch again. The door slid closed. He brushed off his hands. "Well, that was easy."

_Rumble-rumble-ROOOOAAARRR!_

In a split second, Mosby's rifle was back in his hands. "You just had to say something. Just couldn't keep it in."

He and Deacon moved quickly to the walkway, peering down. A horde of ghouls swarmed the floor, running wild. Strange, he'd never heard the ghouls make a sound like that. That sort of roar was familiar to anybody who lived out in the wastes, it was a sound that made your legs tremble and sent anybody with sense running for the hills, the sound of a--

"Deathclaw!" Deacon called, though he stood right next to him.

Mosby winced. "Yeah, I see it. How the fuck'd it get in here?"

The Deathclaw took out five ghouls with a single swipe of its talons. Mosby lined up his shot, caught the beast between the horns. It barely noticed, tossing its head and turning back to the ghouls still on the ground.

"I don't think it can get up here," Mosby said. "If we just stay out of its way, we can-"

He turned to see Deacon had disappeared. Part of the test, he supposed. Leave him without a babysitter and see if he made it out alive. All the same to him.

He fired a few more shots, catching the Deathclaw in the back, the jaw, the arm. Slowly but surely, working the beast into a bloody pulp. Then he ran into a spot of trouble, as he reached for his pocket to reload and realized he was out of ammunition.

His gaze flicked back through the blue pod, out the doorway to the bit of wall that concealed the cache. If Deacon had disappeared--hiding, running, who knows--he could easily slip over and...

Mosby swore aloud. He turned away and started down the ramp.

The air rippled behind him. There was a quiet rustling, the sound of footsteps on metal grating, and Mosby could've sworn he felt something brush past him. He raised his rifle, for all the good it would do, but there was nothing there.

He retraced their steps back through the rooms, collecting bottles of any liquor he could find, hurriedly tearing strips from his shirt to stuff inside. By the time he reached the ground, he had an armful of Molotov Cocktails and a bared midriff. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit the first grenade, pausing to light the cigarette and take a few puffs.

Then he let the bottle fly.

A fence, the top adorned with curls of barbed wire, divided the floor. The flaming cocktail flew over the fence, through the air, and struck the Deathclaw square in the face. It let out another fearsome roar and staggered, shaking its head.

Mosby lit the next grenade and repeated the motion. The second blow barely phased the creature, and he realized this might take longer than he'd thought. At least he had the fence, he reflected, as he looked around for more ammo, maybe a spare gun someone had left lying around...

_Crash!_

Mosby swore again. So much for the fence.

He clambered one-handed onto the nearest turbine, loosing another cocktail as the Deathclaw charged through the fence. Claws cut through the air and he jerked back to avoid them, nearly falling onto the ground.

That familiar phrase repeated in his head, _Don't fall down, don't go down._

Had to stay standing.

The beast stomped, shaking the ground and sending a spray of dust into Mosby's face. He threw his free hand up and squinted through parted fingers. Saw the Deathclaw's fangs closing in on him and, with what he assumed were the last few seconds of his miserable life, Mosby snatched the cigarette from between his lips and held it to the bundle of cocktails in his arms. If he was going out, he was taking the beast with him in a damn firestorm.

The first cloth ignited, then the second, it spread until his arm was full of flame. It bit into his skin, searing his flesh, but he hardly noticed, hoping he could just get the cigarette back into his lips. If he moved quickly, he could get one final puff--

"Throw 'em!" a voice shouted.

Mosby, acting on instinct more than anything, obliged, clumsily dumping the armful of flaming bottles in the direction of the Deathclaw. A bullet whizzed past his ear, and there was a burst of fire.

He felt himself pushed back by the force of it, falling off the turbine, landing hard on concrete.

The air rippled again, this time in front of his face. He found he was looking up at a pair of legs. Deacon, appearing out of thin air, with a pistol leveled at the Deathclaw.

The beast was engulfed in flame, letting out a terrible screaming roar as it clawed at its face. A few more shots to the snout sent it to the ground.

The ground shook, the air filled with the smell of cooked flesh, and the beast fell silent.

Deacon grinned down at him. "That's how we do it."

"A Stealth Boy," Mosby snapped, pushing himself to his feet with the arm that wasn't red and peeling. He'd bit down on the cigarette when he landed, and spit the remains from his mouth. "I waste all my ammo and you're off hiding in a corner."

"I was doing very important recon," Deacon replied, holstering his pistol. "But we did it, didn't we? What a pair--that was good thinking with those Molotovs, cowboy. Dez'll be pretty happy we took down a Deathclaw."

Mosby, limping slightly on tender flesh, pulled a combat knife from his boot and set to work gathering what meat he could salvage from the creature.

"Waste not, want not, huh?"

He said nothing.

"All things considered, that was pretty eas-"

Mosby raised the knife, thick blood dripping down his hand. "Don't say it."

*

For the second time in what Phleg considered to be all too short a time, he was cowering in fear for his life. This time, it wasn't hands that pinned him to a wall--rather, a cold, almost disappointed glare froze him to the spot.

"I expected better, Phelg," Regis said.

Across the table, Fink watched on, nervously _pup-pupping_ on his pipe.

"I assign you the simple task of following and killing the Vault Dweller, and you return to say you've failed in both respects. Not only did you fail to kill the Vault Dweller, you didn't even find him to begin with."

"But I watched the detective like you said-"

"This is a disaster," Fink cried, unable to contain himself. "You Gunners can't do anything right, my clients will be so displeased when they hear this-"

"They already know," Regis snapped. He quickly lowered his voice and turned back to the Gunner. "Where was he headed, Phleg? The least you could manage would be to see which direction he'd gone."

Before the man could answer, there was a furious pounding on the door. Fink flinched, nearly dropping his pipe. The door swung open as the knocker didn't bother to wait to be called in.

"The jig is up, Fink," Mayor McDonough snapped. "You got careless and got caught, and if you think I'm going down for you, you're damned wrong."

"Such kind treatment for the esteemed Diamond City well-to-do," Regis quipped.

"And you," the Mayor turned on him. "You filthy Gunners better stay out of my city. I've turned a blind eye to your comings and goings, told the Security to do the same so long as the caps kept flowing. Lucky most of them are too stupid to spot you idiots, but I'll tell them to shoot on sight if I ever see your face around here again."

Regis stood, tucking his hands in his pockets. "I suppose you've outstayed your welcome, Fink. Shame."

"You get five minutes before I turn the reporter loose. She'll turn the town against you in a minute, your head'll be on a pike--mine, too, if you don't stay quiet. You hear me, Fink?"

Fink's pipe was trembling, rattling against the table. Suddenly, he snapped to attention and turned to Phleg. "What did you say that bastard's name was, again?"

"Fitz Mosby, Boss."

"We've got to find him, to kill-"

"I didn't hear any of that," McDonough spat, and slammed the door behind him.

"I'd like to find him and see exactly how he's still alive," Regis said. "We have some locals looking to do some good, looking to get Mosby off the streets for good. If they kill him before I can-" He shrugged. "Ah, well. You'd better start packing."

The pipe finally fell to the floor as Fink rose to his feet, pounded his fists against the table. "Damn you, is that the best you can say?"

"Our local friends will handle it," Regis replied. "But we've got more important things. The reason I came here, before this little unfortunate bit of business, was to tell you my Gunners have found it. Or they're close to finding it--that weapon of yours. Seems it's up in Sanctuary."

"Sanctuary?" Fink repeated, following it with a curse.

"Sanctuary," a quiet voice echoed, and a small shadow slipped away from the window. It climbed carefully down from the scaffolding, lowering itself hand-over-hand down from the Upper Stands, crawled through a gap in the fencing, and raced back toward the Security office.

By the time Piper Wright and Preston Garvey were released from the Diamond City lockup, the latter reluctantly receiving a pardon from a Mayor eager to distance himself from the matter, they had their sights set west.

The Gunners had a head start, now it was a matter of beating the clock to see if they could keep it.

*

Deacon led the way through the crypt of the Old North Church until they reached a plain door at the end of the hallway.

"Home sweet home."

Mosby looked around at the headquarters, saw a makeshift clinic in one corner, a shooting range in another. He received curious glances from figures hammering away at workbenches, stony glares from others over the rims of their glasses.

"Neat little setup you folks have here." His gaze lingered on a broken stone coffin, the crumbling remains of a skeleton inside. "Very...homey."

If Desdemona was surprised to see them back, she didn't show it. "Well?"

"Cache's safe, boss. And Mosby here took out a Deathclaw."

Only now did a hint of surprise creep across the Railroad leader's face. "Did he."

"Yeah, all by himself. You should've seen it-"

"It was hardly," Mosby interrupted, "all by myself. If it weren't for your killshot, I'd be mincemeat. Now, can we get to the matter at hand ? I secured your cache, I reported back, I did what you asked."

"The Deathclaw was all he took out," Deacon said, holding Desdemona's gaze for another silent moment.

She nodded.

"Alright, fair's fair. You helped us--what can the Railroad do for you?"

"Looking for something. A weapon. Back from the prewar days."

"Got any details?"

"Don't know where it is, or what it is, only that some nasty bastards want to get their hands on it. And I plan to get it first."

"What sort of nasty bastards are we talking?" Deacon asked.

"Gunners. On hire from some rich bastard out of Diamond City." Mosby's jaw tightened. "Led by a man named Regis."

A quiet muttering spread through the eavesdroppers, and Desdemona raised her hand for silence. The watching agents busied themselves with pretending they weren't listening.

"We know the name. Regis and his Gunners have killed too many of our own, too many synths. He kills for the fun of it, just to spill blood." She stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "We'll help you find that weapon, so long as you use it on him."

"That's the plan."

Glory, leaning against a nearby pillar, crossed her arms. "You can't tell us anything about what it is, where it could be? Hell, what it looks like?"

"If it's got a nice chrome finish, or a more rustic look...?" Deacon added.

"All I know is it's Vault-Tec's doing. Had some sort of contract with the army before the bombs fell. I saw something about it on a terminal in a vault up near Sanctuary. Might be hidden around there, but there weren't any details about where they stashed it. Kept it real hush-hush."

"A terminal," Desdemona repeated thoughtfully. She called across the room, "Tom, job for you."

A man with a strange hat, laden down by lenses and twisting wires, answered the summons. "A newbie, huh? I don't know about this one, Dez, he reeks of the outside. You drink the water up there, man?"

"On occasion."

Tom slowly shook his head. "I don't know about him."

"Tom, he can help us get to Regis. He needs information off a terminal in a vault, you think you can crack it?"

"A vault? Aw, Dez, you know I don't do fieldwork."

"No, I already checked the terminal," Mosby said. "Didn't find anything."

"Sure, you checked that terminal." Tom sounded impatient, as if he had far better things to be tinkering with across the room. "But not others on the network. If I could access it, it'd be easy to poke around in the information pathways, peek around the corner at the other terminals. If the encryption isn't too tough, but this is Vault-Tec we're talking about, nothing they ever made was too hard to crack into. Just a simple cipher."

Mosby was watching him with narrowed eyes. "The hell is he talking about?"

"If he can access that terminal you used," Dez supplied, "he should be able to view the information stored on connected terminals, too. That should get us the answers we need."

"Fine." Mosby straightened. "Let's go."

"Take-"

"Deacon, yeah, yeah." Mosby was already headed for the door. "My very own Railroad-assigned babysitter, to make sure I don't accidentally wander onto a landmine."

Desdemona stopped him before he reached the door. "Rest up, who knows what's waiting for you out there. Restock, reload. There are beds in the back corridor. You'll head out in the morning."

"I don't take orders from you."

"You may not," Desdemona's eyes were hard, "but my people do. And I won't send them out without proper preparation. If they don't come back in one piece, it's on your head I'll place the blame. You won't leave here until you are prepared to do so. Understood?"

Mosby hated to admit she had a point, and hated even more the thought of taking orders, but his head was heavy and his gun was empty and so, reluctantly, he grumbled his agreement. He felt eyes on his back as he trudged in the direction she pointed. After gathering up a few rounds of ammo and loading his rifle, he found an unoccupied mattress in a corner and lay down, keeping the piece close at hand.

He kept his gaze fixed on the brick wall across from him as long as he could, fighting the urge to sleep, though he knew he ought to. Couldn't wander into a fight dead on his feet, hadn't someone recently told him that? His mind wandered, his fingers loosely curled around the barrel of the rifle, his burnt arm aching. Ah, fuck, he hadn't done anything about that.

But before he could move, he'd slipped into darkness. Cold darkness, a pitch-black pool. A stabbing pain in his arm, in his jaw, in his chest. A knife in his heart, digging deeper, and he couldn't breathe--

He curled in on himself and saw that damn Gunner was leaning over him, that bastard with his inquisitive smile, that man they called Regis.

"Can you feel the life draining out?" he asked. "How does it feel?"

Mosby reached for his rifle but it was out of reach, he couldn't find it, his fingers scrambling at the dirt floor.

"How does it feel?" the voice repeated, only it wasn't Regis.

His vision cleared. A man in a dirty lab coat was staring down at him, frowning.

"Your arm," he said, "how is it?"

"What?" Mosby pushed himself up, pressing his back against the wall, wiped a shaking hand across his forehead. "Who are you?"

The man looked down at his lab coat, then back up at Mosby.

"The doctor," he said, as if it were obvious. "Carrington. Dedemona's right, it seems you'd be a good agent. You already get yourself torn up like one."

"I'm fine," Mosby said, quickly moving his arm out of the doctor's reach. "Is it time to go? The others ready?"

Carrington scoffed.

"Hardly. It's been ten minutes, Deacon's still spinning his tale about how valiantly you fought off that Deathclaw. He seems to think the more detail he gives, the more likely we are to buy it." His eyes flicked to Mosby's arm. "You ought not sleep with it like that."

Mosby bit back a reply that he ought not sleep at all, and allowed the doctor to do his work. He winced as the Stimpak pierced his arm.

"It will be a bit sore," Carrington said, dusting off his knees and rising to his feet. "But you'll live."

"Thanks."

The doctor started to move toward the doorway, then paused.

"We do not condone chem use here, but there's a bottle or two of liquor around. Talk to Glory, I'm sure she has some hidden away. Might help you sleep."

"I'll pass."

Carrington turned away. "Suit yourself."

Mosby watched him go, then tucked his arm close to his body, his back pressed against the bricks. It wasn't long before he slipped reluctantly to sleep again, to the dark, swirling dreams that awaited him.


	3. The Spark, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a race to the finish to see who can get their hands on the weapon first--will it be Fink and his hired Gunners, or Mosby and his unlikely Railroad allies? Will Preston and Piper reach Sanctuary in time? And what the hell is Project Summanus, anyway? Find out in PART ONE of the conclusion of the 'Commonwealth Ghost' arc of Wasteland Roamin'.

The three left early the next morning through the escape tunnel, hoping to get some distance before daybreak. They would've managed it if they'd avoided the river, had stuck to the shadowy side streets like Deacon suggested. But Mosby, irritable after a largely restless night, had to be difficult. It was in his nature.

So he set aside that voice in his head that told him Deacon was right, and, egged on by the left hand that kept curling and uncurling into a fist, insisted the shortest line between two points was a straight one. They'd cross the river and follow the main road that cut across the north side of the ruined city, push on until they hit wasteland. Then they'd camp for a few hours and carry on for Sanctuary.

And that would've worked.

But Mosby had to be difficult. He had to have a tendency to pick fights he ought to avoid. Had to piss off certain people, certain gun-toting, riverbank-dwelling people.

It was a few blocks past Bunker Hill when Mosby and Deacon turned to each other and, at the same time, spoke:

"Head's up, we've got a tail."

"We've got company."

"Ha," Deacon grinned. "You owe me a Nuka-Cola."

Mosby didn't bother to reply, raising his hunting rifle and turning to look down the street they'd just crossed. It was quiet, dark but for an abandoned fire flickering in a barrel. But, though he couldn't see them, he felt the eyes.

"We should keep moving," Deacon whispered.

"And let them follow us all the way across the wastes?"

"Now's not the time for a fight." The Railroad agent's gaze flicked to Tinker Tom, whose eyes darted at a sudden whistling breeze. "Tom's many things, but he's no gunslinger--no offense."

"None taken," Tom replied, in a hiss, "I vote for running. Running fast. Man, I hate being up here."

Mosby ground his teeth. "Fine. Fine, let's move."

They hastened along, quickly made the edge of the city. Ruined steel and concrete became cracked pavement, overgrown with tall grass. And still, Mosby felt eyes on his back.

"We leave the road," he said, "cut across the wastes."

"We stick to the overpass," Deacon countered, "follow it north."

"Guys?" Tom whispered.

"Remember what I said about straight lines? You want to waste time?"

"I don't want a bullet in my ass. The road'll give us shelter, you can't find cover behind a patch of grass."

"Fellas," Tom tried again, "remember that company?"

Scowling, Mosby and Deacon turned to see the ashen look that had come over the tinkerer's face.

"It caught up."

The first few bullets flew overhead, narrowly missing them, kicking up dust as they struck the pavement.

"Shit," Mosby spat, and dove behind a rusted car. "I told you we should've dealt with them."

Deacon thrust a spare pistol into Tom's hand. "Firefights are easy, just don't get hit by any bullets."

Suddenly, the shooting stopped.

"Fitz Mosby," a voice called. "Show your face."

"So you can blast it off?" Deacon replied. "Sure, great idea."

"We don't care about your companions," the voice continued. "Just you, Mosby. Come out here."

Mosby grit his teeth. After a split-second deliberation, he held his rifle out to his side and rose to his feet.

"What the hell are you-"

"I'm Mosby," Mosby said. "Who wants to know?"

A half-circle of figures faced him, tommy guns and rifles trained on his heart. One stepped forward, and Mosby, despite the circumstances, laughed.

"Salenti, you jackass-"

Marv Salenti's shotgun, unlike the others', wasn't aimed at Mosby. Instead, its barrel pointed toward the ground, twitching and jumping with each breath.

"The Pillars have unfinished business with you, Mosby," he said. "You wronged them. You gotta pay."

_The Pillars, shitting fucking hell--_

"This is a bad crowd, Salenti. Thought you said you were done with this sort of thing."

"I was. I am. But you-" The ghoul spat on the ground. "You gotta be dealt with."

"What a thank you, huh? I saved your life, saved you from those Brotherhood goons, and now you plan to thank me with a bullet. Real nice, Salenti."

"Salenti told us what you are," one of the Pillar mercenaries called. "We aim to put you down, freak."

Mosby's laugh was far more bitter the second time around. "Look, Salenti, one freak to another--you're a goddamn hypocrite."

That got the shotgun leveled at his face.

"Regis wants you alive. I don't think we can manage that."

Salenti's finger twitched on the trigger.

Mosby heard a shout behind him, "Tom, now!"

Knowing what little he knew about the Railroad, he figured he ought to get out of the way and took a flying leap toward the nearest cement pillar.

Just in time-- _BOOOOOM!_

The car he'd recently used as cover exploded in a fiery ball, leaving a crater in its wake. It sent shrapnel flying, catching Salenti in the gut and sending him to the ground. Two other Pillars went down, engulfed in flames.

Mosby fired through the choking smoke, heard Deacon and Tom do the same, and, quickly, the shooting from the Pillars ceased. He stumbled to his feet, rubbing a sore shoulder, and surveyed the scene.

Salenti was torn to ribbons, too much for a Stimpak to knit back together. He was dead, most of the Pillars were, too. One was still twitching, bleeding badly from their throat, and Mosby raised his rifle, meaning to finish them off.

Bile rose in his throat. _The ghoul was right._

He turned away.

Without a word, he set off across the grass, sticking to the shelter provided by the overpass. The sky was gray above their heads, the sun had just begun to rise, barely peering through the clouds. A storm was coming. He could feel it in his bones.

Deacon and Tom followed.

"Who the hell were they?" Deacon asked, to Mosby's back. "They called themselves the 'Pillars'? Never heard of them."

"Con artists."

"They seemed to have quite a grudge against you. You do something to disrupt their business?"

"Yeah."

Deacon nodded. "Well, that answers all my questions. Slow down, there, cowboy, you're talking our ears off."

Mosby turned, teeth bared to snarl back a reply, but lost the energy to complete the motion halfway through. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and walked on.

He said nothing more until the outskirts of Lexington loomed before them. Only then did Mosby force himself to break the silence.

"Nice work," he grunted. "With the car."

Tinker Tom, who looked a little more comfortable with a pistol in his hand, looked over.

"Saved my ass," Mosby went on. "Appreciate it."

"Those Pillars looked like they meant business."

After a block, Mosby forced himself to speak again. "How'd you do it? Didn't hear a shot."

"I rigged up a bomb."

Surprise shook Mosby into letting a bemused smile cross his face. "Just like that, huh?"

Tom shrugged.

"There's a reason we call him Tinker Tom," Deacon said. "Can make anything out of anything, give 'im five minutes and a pack of gum."

"Damn." Mosby thought for a moment. "Think you could do it again?"

"Just say the word."

"Boom." Mosby shot him a confused look, and Deacon grinned. "The word is 'boom.'"

As they neared Concord, they heard the distant _pop-pop_ of gunfire.

"Never just a walk in the park." Deacon tutted. "You know, somedays I'd like to go a few hours without getting shot at. Take in the sights, smell the flowers. But the 'Wealth never rests when it comes to ruining my plans."

"You're in the wrong line of work for peaceful days." Tom shook his head, bemused.

At the heart of what was once the city of Concord stood what remained of the Museum of Freedom. Mosby had gone through it a few years back, looking for scrap. Some old exhibits, talking all sorts of patriotic nonsense. Interesting costumes on the mannequins.

Odd--squinting down the street through the haze of gunfire and flying lasers, he could swear one of the mannequins had gotten up and walked out the front door. That hat looked familiar...

Ducking his head, hugging the wall, he moved closer. Then he recognized the laser musket.

"Garvey, it's Fitz Mosby," he called. "Behind you, don't shoot."

"There you are!" Preston Garvey sent the words over his shoulder, and Mosby could hear the scowl without seeing his face. "Been searching half the damn Commonwealth for you."

"Good news is we found those Gunners of yours." A voice came from Mosby's right, across the street, and he looked to see Piper Wright had found cover in the doorway of a church. She fired a few shots down the street and went on, "Bad news is we found those Gunners of yours."

Deacon let out a little tsst to get Mosby's attention. "I'll flank 'em, keep 'em busy."

He crept away down an alley. Mosby risked a glance at the shooters and saw a half-dozen Gunners, one in power armor. As he watched, Piper fired three shots in quick succession, bringing one Gunner down.

"Wright," he called, "you a straight shot?"

"Relatively," she replied. "I'm a reporter, not a hired gun."

"Get up to the roof. See what you can do from there."

Her reply lacked the sort of ringing enthusiasm he'd hoped for. "I'll see what I can do."

Mosby took down a Gunner of his own, eyed that figure in power armor, who absorbed his bullets like they were nothing. The last thing they had was time--or, for that matter, ammo--to spare.

"We've got to push forward, get to Sanctuary."

"What do you think we're trying to do?"

_Fine, smartass._

"Tom," Mosby cupped one hand around his mouth to carry the words through the chaos, "boom!"

"On it!"

"Come on, Deacon," Mosby muttered, "any day now."

_Pop-pop!_

With a shout of alarm, a third Gunner went down. One of the three still standing wheeled and sent a barrage of fire behind him. The shots abruptly stopped, and then there were two.

"Got that boom for you," Tom called.

"How the fuck do you do that so quickly?" Mosby turned to see the tinkerer presenting a bundle of frag grenades and wires.

"I'll be honest, I made a few before we left HQ. Just sounds more impressive if I say they were made on the spot."

"You Railroaders love your tall tales." Mosby snatched it from his hand. "How do I work this thing?"

"Pull the pin. Count to five. But-" He ducked as a Molotov Cocktail roared overhead, "can't throw it. Gotta set it down."

"Well, fuck," Mosby spat.

He studied the street, the rusted cars scattered around. The closest was near the entrance to the museum, if he hauled ass and kept his head down, and maybe prayed a little, he might just make it. Maybe.

Shaking his head, Mosby was certain that someday there would come a time when he didn't go running headfirst into trouble. He wondered if he'd live that long.

"Cover me."

His rifle in one hand, the makeshift bomb in the other, he started to run.

Garvey swore behind him. Up on the church roof, Piper shouted. Across the street, he saw Deacon with his arm around a Gunner's throat.

And, straight ahead, between him and the car, he saw a suit of power armor and found himself staring straight down the barrel of a missile launcher. His eyes fixed on that circle of darkness, he couldn't look away. Couldn't direct his feet to the right or left, like one ought to in such a predicament. He could only run straight ahead, a twisting fear in his gut at the sight of that darkness. Cold fingers creeping up his spine.

"Son of a bitch," he shouted, just a few feet away now.

The Gunner's finger curled around the trigger. Mosby dove forward, felt his face singed by the heat of the missile, which missed him by inches.

Landing hard on the pavement, he dropped the bomb and flicked the switch.

One.

The missile launcher was tossed aside. The power armor crossed the distance between them in two bounds, and a metal hand came out to catch his throat, crushing the wind out of him.

Two.

Mosby was lifted off the ground, feet kicking clumsily against armor. Had to keep him in place for just a few moments more.

Three.

He still held the hunting rifle in one hand, though quarters were far too close to fire. Instead, he gripped the barrel and brought the butt up, swinging with all his might.

_Clang!_

Four.

He fell to the ground, scrambling away, wheezing as he dragged himself along the pavement. The ground rattled as the Gunner took a step to follow.

Five.

Mosby curled in on himself and took a moment to send that silent, quick prayer up to the sky.

_BOOOOOM!_

Cold. So cold.

And dark, dark all around.

He was dead. He had to be. His number was finally up, all those lives he'd taken, all the wrong he'd done, all of it had caught up. He'd escaped it once, somehow, but not this time.

Except...no, no, he wasn't dead. He couldn't be. He wouldn't fucking allow it.

He'd come too far, fallen too hard for Vault-Tec's mysteries. Gotten so close to the end, to the jackpot, the biggest, juiciest Vault-Tec gem out there, only to die _now_? Now, when he had a chance to get a nasty bastard like Regis out of the 'Wealth, to deliver some of whatever passed for justice in the Wasteland? No. No, that's not how he was gonna go.

Fitz Mosby was many things--a scavver, a crook, a gun for hire. A scared man jumping at shadows, running from what he saw when he closed his eyes. Running from himself.

But goddamn it, he was no quitter.

And he wasn't dead. Not yet.

Not just yet.

Mosby opened his eyes.

That cold he'd felt was rain, pattering on his face, soaking his clothes. That darkness, from the arms thrown over his face, blocking his view of the dull gray sky.

He was alive.

"Goddamn hell," he groaned.

"He's alive," Piper confirmed.

"That was some stupid trick you pulled," Preston said, and, again, Mosby heard rather than saw his scowl.

A hand pulled him to his feet. Mosby blinked to clear his vision and saw Deacon and Tinker Tom looking on--good, last thing he needed was Desdemona to tear him apart for getting her agents killed.

"If those Gunners were here," he said, spitting blood on the pavement and massaging a sore jaw, "then I'm guessing Regis has already made it to the vault."

"We've got to get to Sanctuary," the Minuteman said. "I knew those Gunners would be trouble."

Mosby hadn't expected anything good to meet them in Sanctuary, but even he was dismayed at the sight. What little fortifications the Minutemen had managed to erect were in smoldering ruins. The remains of a wooden shack still burning in the center of town. The streets were deserted, no one in sight.

Preston's face twisted. He tore off his hat and threw it to the ground. "Damn it!"

He looked close to doing the same with his musket, and Piper quickly spoke, "I know this looks bad, Garvey, but we've still got-"

"They were counting on me," His fists clenched around the weapon, "and I let them down--again. How could I-"

He looked up. Reflected in his face Mosby saw the fear that twisted in his own gut, the fear he was trying hard to ignore.

"I got them killed." Preston's voice was low, sorrowful. "I told them we'd be safe here, and they died, because of me. Their blood's on my hands, all their...on my head."

"I don't see any bodies." The words came from Deacon and Mosby was surprised at how somberly he spoke. "No blood, no bullet casings. If they'd been here when the Gunners came through we'd...see them."

Preston shook his head, turned toward the remains of the shack. To all their surprise, there was someone standing there, someone who hadn't been there just moments before.

"Preston, thank god." It was a man in stained overalls, whose laser musket drooped toward the ground as he hastened forward.

"Sturges-" Preston's jaw fell open.

"We weren't sure where you'd gone, thought the Gunners had gotten you." Sturges seized Preston's hand and gave it a firm shake. "Lucky that Marcy's got such keen eyes, or else they would've caught us by surprise. We hid out in the truck stop, watched them walk right by."

"You're all..." Garvey trailed off.

"Everybody's a little shaken up, but we're alright. They headed up the hill."

"For the vault," Mosby muttered. "I must've missed something."

Preston shook himself into action.

"Stay put, Sturges, we'll clear the Gunners out. Don't move until I come get you." He bent down to retrieve his hat, placing it back on his head. Then he turned to the others. "Let's move out, people."

Across a rickety wood bridge, huddled beneath the counter of the Red Rocket truck stop, Mama Murphy's cloudy blue eyes stared at the wall.

"The spark," she said, to no one in particular. "You're getting close, kid."

*

PROJECT SUMMANUS

\-- CONFIDENTIAL CONFIDENTIAL CONFIDENTIAL --

FOR OVERSEER'S EYES ONLY

Overseer,

The orders went through. Per our last meeting, the weapon has been relocated and is now your responsibility. The Army won't tolerate any more leaks to the public--any word of this gets out, and it's your head on the chopping block.

Should the worst occur, proceed with vault operations as normal. Wait for the all-clear, at which time the Army will issue further instructions.

No one at Vault-Tec is to know of this. Not your staff, not the vault residents. This never happened.

Gen. M----------

"Good work," Regis said, clapping the Gunner on the shoulder. He sent a pointed look to Fink. "Seems we Gunners aren't worthless after all."

Fink bristled and looked away. He'd lost his pipe in the scramble to leave Diamond City, and opted instead to keep a constant hand on the pistol at his belt, twitching at each sudden noise.

Vault 111 was full to the brim with Gunners, clearing out radroaches, rummaging for loot and scrap. A few, specially selected by Regis, were tasked with searching for a door, an elevator, a hidden passage he was sure would lead to their prize.

"It's close," Regis said, scanning the Overseer's office. "Guess they thought it was smart to hide it in a vault, right under everyone's nose--even Vault-Tec's."

"Yes, I'm sure they thought they were quite clever," Fink snapped. "Now, where is it?"

Across the room, there was the loud _scraaape_ of metal on concrete.

"Boss-" A Gunner leapt up from where she'd been crouched, feeling along the side of a cabinet in the Overseer's quarters. "Found something."

Fink didn't wait for the smug remark he was sure to come from Regis. He led the way through the newly-opened passage, shoving the Gunner aside in his haste.

As Regis and a handful of Gunners followed, the vault's elevator was rumbling its way down from the surface.


	4. The Spark, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a race to the finish to see who can get their hands on the weapon first--will it be Fink and his hired Gunners, or Mosby and his unlikely Railroad allies? Will Preston and Piper reach Sanctuary in time? And what the hell is Project Summanus, anyway? Find out in PART TWO of the conclusion of the 'Commonwealth Ghost' arc of Wasteland Roamin'.

"How many of those booms you got left, Tom?" Deacon whispered.

"Uh, well, none," came the reply. "But I can make more if you have any 'nades, and some wire, maybe a pair of pliers, some adhesive, a tube of toothpaste-"

"Toothpaste?" Mosby made a show of patting his pockets. "Damn, I'm fresh out."

"What could you need toothpaste for?" Piper asked.

Before he could reply, Preston shushed them. "This elevator isn't exactly quiet, they'll be waiting for us."

The lights flickered and Deacon lit a match, the small glow casting dancing shadows across his chin. "Got a plan, Minuteman?"

"You need to get Tom to a terminal, right?"

"In the Overseer's office," Mosby nodded. "It's down a few halls, around a few corners. I know the way."

Garvey blew out a sigh. "I say we come out shooting, then run like hell."

"We'll be cornered," Piper spoke from the shadows across the elevator. "That's a terrible plan."

"I'm on board." The match burnt down to Deacon's fingers and he let out a quiet _yeouch_ and shook his hand. The elevator was plunged into darkness again.

"Can't think of a better idea. We'll be pinned down if we stay in the elevator." Mosby's jaw still ached. He'd bit down hard on the inside of his cheek as he landed on the pavement, could swear he'd broken straight through the skin. "And I don't plan to die inside a tin can."

"Once we get to the terminal, try to keep me covered," Tom said. "I can crack the terminal's security easy, but I'd prefer not to be full of lead by the time I'm done."

"We'll do our best."

A light appeared beneath their feet, streaming up from the gap between the platform and the elevator shaft. They were nearing the entrance.

"This'll be a hell of a story," Piper said, shaking her head, "if I live to write it."

The five readied themselves, raised their weapons. Light streamed into the elevator, nearly blinding them. Squinting into the room beyond, they were surprised to find it empty.

"Huh."

Preston led the way up the stairs, across the metal grating.

"Hold up." Mosby gestured with his rifle toward an open door to their left. "That wasn't open last time I was here."

There were a few muffled gunshots from the corridor to their right.

"I vote we go that way," Tom said, inching toward the open door.

As he did, a shadow appeared on the floor. A Gunner, his head turned to speak to someone down the corridor, emerged from the doorway.

"Don't-" Mosby hissed.

_Fwish._

"-shoot."

"The hell was that?"

"Fredericks, you alright?"

"He's down! Somebody's here--Boss!"

Garvey, his laser musket still smoking, managed to look somewhat sheepish. "Guess we're going loud after all."

They pushed forward.

The hallway ahead led to another door. Bullets pinged off the metal walls, Mosby felt one graze his shoulder and swore. He and Deacon jostled for a position on one side of the doorway, peering at the hallway beyond to see it disappear around a blind corner.

"They definitely didn't build this place with firefights in mind," Deacon called. "Can't see a damn thing."

Piper fired a few shots--behind them, Mosby noticed.

"Remember what I said about being cornered?" she shouted, as she scrambled for cover.

"Tom, Garvey, with me," Mosby called. "Wright, Deacon, cover our asses."

He moved down the hall and heard Piper shout at his back, "Are you crazy?"

Rounding the corner brought him face-to-face with a Gunner. Both fingers twitched on the trigger but he was a moment quicker, and the Gunner went down. Mosby snatched the pistol from his hand and stuffed it in his belt.

Preston let out a shout of pain and staggered as a shot caught him in the leg. Half-falling into a nook in the wall, he fired back and the Gunner reeled. Three more took their place.

"Hell," Mosby spat.

He lined up his shot, hit one in the chest. Aimed for a second and was shoved out of the way.

Deacon sprinted past, head down, and rammed shoulder-first into one of the Gunners, who fired wild as they were pushed back against the wall. Mosby swore again and fired at the third Gunner as they turned their gun toward Deacon.

"The fuck are you doing?"

"Gotta move," Piper said, from behind him, dragging Tom along the hall.

Leaping over fallen Gunners, they turned the corner and found themselves in the Overseer's office. Deacon, panting, slammed a fist on the button to seal the doors.

Preston limped across the office to do the same with the other entrance. Then he sagged to the floor, breathing hard.

"I told you to cover us," Mosby snapped.

"Too many of 'em," Piper replied, her words emphasized by the loud _pings_ and _bangs_ against the other side of the door.

"There's your terminal, Tom," Deacon said. Mosby noticed his sunglasses had been knocked off in the scuffle, and found it oddly disconcerting to see his eyes.

Tinker Tom was strangely quiet as he replied, "There's your weapon."

They followed his gaze to the Overseer's quarters, to the figures who stood in the doorway. Who hadn't been standing in the doorway a moment earlier, who'd appeared from a hole in the wall. A dozen of them.

In a moment, they were surrounded.

Garvey was pulled away from the door, his musket roughly snatched from his hand. He staggered as a Gunner delivered a swift kick to his injured leg.

Deacon made to relinquish his weapon only to swing the butt against a Gunner's head, bringing his knee up to their groin. As he turned to meet the next, their fist caught him in the chin and sent him reeling. Two more Gunners seized his arms.

Piper got off a shot before the pistol was jerked from her hand and she was shoved toward the center of the room.

Fitz Mosby watched the circle part to allow two men entry.

One, holding a metal case and dressed in as spiffy a suit as one could get in the Wasteland. He crossed the room and took up a position next to the door, looking ready to bolt, nervously palming his pistol.

The other, with a broad smile that Mosby recognized. One he'd last seen through a haze of pain. And that voice, the one he heard in his nightmares, spoke.

"Mosby. I see you're not dead. Isn't that a wonder?"

Mosby raised his rifle and the circle of Gunners bristled, but Regis waved them off.

"Figured those Pillars wouldn't manage to kill you. You outsmarted them before, so they can't be that bright. And here you are. Looking for that weapon?" Regis' gun was holstered on his hip, he made no move to draw. His voice was mocking. "We found it first. Rules of the 'wealth--finders, keepers."

"Make this quick, Regis," Fink called. "I won't keep my clients waiting any longer."

Mosby should care about the weapon, that thing that had kept him alive for so long. The promise of Vault-Tec's secrets, this great hidden marvel. It could bring him riches, could make him king of any castle he wanted. But at the moment, he could only think of one thing.

"That thing you did to me, those chems--you did it to others."

Even Regis seemed surprised at his chosen topic. "Certainly."

"To innocents. How many?"

Regis' grin widened and Mosby stepped forward, teeth bared, the barrel of his rifle inching closer to the Gunner's skull.

"How many?" he snarled.

"More than I cared to count." Regis reached out and snatched the barrel, pressing it against his forehead. "Go ahead and shoot, Mosby. You'll be dead before you hit the floor. Those friends of yours, too. Is it worth it, just to kill me?"

Mosby's hackles rose, but his finger was unmoving on the trigger. He couldn't seem to make the muscles curl.

"You're wasting time," Fink insisted.

"Me," Regis was still speaking, though Mosby could hardly hear him through the roaring in his ears. "Did you go through all this to rid the 'Wealth of one Gunner, one lousy murderer? How much good do you think that'll do? Think it'll right all your wrongs? Unspill all that blood you've wasted? You're damned wrong if you think that, Mosby. It won't do a goddamn thing."

Out of the corner of his eye, Mosby caught sight of movement. A shuffling of Gunners, a widening of the circle that surrounded him. He turned his head and saw the flash of a gun barrel in the dim light.

The rifle lowered.

Regis scoffed. "I hoped you'd see reason. See that you're just wasting your time."

"How long do you think you can keep running?"

The Gunner's eyes narrowed. "I run from no one."

"You're like me," Mosby said, "you run from yourself. From death. From the death that should've gotten you a long time ago."

Mosby's gun clattered to the floor. He kept his hands open, out to his sides.

"But it's caught up, Regis. Caught up to both of us. Who do you think it'll take first? Me?"

Mosby bent his knees, just slightly. Not enough for Regis to notice, just enough for a quick motion. One he'd have to time right.

"Or you?"

In the split second between the bang! and the bullet, Fitz Mosby ducked, scooped up his rifle, and fired once.

"Aaagh!"

Fink sagged to the ground, the pistol falling from his hand. He clutched his arm, crimson welling through his fingers. Behind Mosby, Regis toppled back, dead before he hit the floor.

The Gunners stood in shock for a moment, watching their boss fall. Mosby killed two where they stood, ducked behind the desk to reload.

Deacon shook off the two that held him and dispatched one, snapping their neck with a quick motion. He charged at the other, bringing them to the ground.

From a half-crouch, Garvey wrestled his musket out of the hands of the Gunner who'd seized it, striking them across the back of the knees and sending them falling hard to the ground.

Piper ducked, dove across the room to grab the metal case from where it had fallen. She seemed to pause for a moment, tempted to open it, but the gunfire overhead convinced her otherwise. Instead, she tossed the case to Tinker Tom and retrieved the weapon off the nearest fallen Gunner.

Without their leader, the Gunners were disorganized, confused, unable to fall back on orders. Some made for the doors, only to be cut down before they could fumble them open. At the moment, Mosby had no qualms about shooting a man in the back.

One by one they fell, until the only one standing--or, rather, crouching--was Fink.

Deacon had him by the throat, squeezing just hard enough to make the man's eyes widen with fear.

"You've got some things to answer for, Finky-friend."

Mosby stood over Deacon's shoulder, in no mood to beat around the bush. "What is it?"

"Wha-"

"The weapon, what is it? What was Vault-Tec doing?"

"Proj-ject Summ-"

"Summanus, I know." Mosby leaned forward. "But what the hell was it?"

"Like th-the bomb," Fink stammered. "Flick the switch, it all goes dark. Everything."

"Start making sense, Fink," Deacon warned, his grip tightening around the man's throat.

"Electro-electro..." Fink's eyes darted. "They didn't tell me much, just that it'd all go dark--generators, vertibirds, everything, across the 'Wealth."

"Who's they?"

"The-the-"

The pounding of Gunner bullets intensified against the door.

"Fink, you'd best not make us wait." Mosby checked the number of bullets left in his pockets--not many. "They won't like that you killed their boss. And I'll be sure to tell them you did before they blast me to kingdom come."

"Institute. The Institute." Fink's eyes bulged. "Please, you've got to let me go. I need that weapon, the things they'll do to me if I don't-"

"I'm sure I can think of worse things," Mosby snarled.

"If this thing can bring down vertibirds," Tom said, gingerly holding the case by his fingertips, "bring down everything--I bet the Institute wants it to make us easier to conquer. I knew it, man, I knew they were planning something!"

"'Institute Plot Foiled, 'Wealth Heroes Keep the Lights On.'" Piper retrieved her notebook and was furiously scribbling. "This story keeps getting better."

"You don't understand," Fink hissed, "they'll find the weapon eventually, if not me, the next damn fool. Best just give it to them now, maybe save our asses. Earn us a free pass, a spot with the Institute."

"Sure, I've spent enough time fighting against them, might as well join 'em." Deacon's hands tightened further, and Fink started to turn an odd shade of magenta. "The coward's way is the best way, huh?"

Mosby rose to his feet, eyeing the case. "The weapon can really do that?"

Fink couldn't find the breath to respond, instead nodded as best as he could around the hands gripping his throat.

That much power...could bring down the Brotherhood of Steel in one fell swoop, down that big damn airship of theirs, all their vertibirds. Could take out settlements that refused him entry, every damn merchant who'd ever looked sideways at him. Could crush those smug bastards in Diamond City, leave them vulnerable to whoever wanted to waltz through the gates.

Could fetch plenty of caps, were he to find the right buyer. Hell, he could sell it to the Institute if he wanted. He didn't know much about them, other than the inflated stories synth-fearing settlers told.

Wouldn't be hard to clear out the room, leave no witnesses, take the case and disappear. Disappear so that the Gunners, the Railroad, nobody would ever find him. He'd sell the weapon and leave the Commonwealth for good. He'd heard of other settlements, other markets, other trade networks.

But.

There were these damned buts--but the 'Wealth was his home, much as he'd ever had a place he could call a 'home.' But he'd found a few faces he trusted, a few guns he could rely on, something he never thought he'd find.

Regis had been right. Ridding the 'Wealth of one Gunner, one lousy murderer, was nothing. Did little in the grand scheme of things. There was always one more murderer, one more crook, one more bloodthirsty gun.

Always more to do.

Somebody needed to deal with them. He never thought that somebody'd be him.

But maybe this was a shot to right some wrongs.

A chance to do some good, for a change.

All these damn buts.

Mosby shook his head.

"Tom," he said, "can that thing be destroyed?"

Tinker Tom's eyes widened. "What?"

"You've got a bomb in your hands, something nobody should have. Can it be destroyed without setting it off?"

The tinkerer looked down at the case. "I don't know, I'd have to-"

"Do whatever you need to. Take a hammer to it, anything. Just break that fuckin' thing into tiny pieces."

"No!" Fink shouted. "Wait, please, they'll-"

"I don't give a damn about the Institute," Mosby snapped, turning back to him. He raised his rifle and Fink gulped. "I don't give a damn about the Gunners, and I certainly don't give a damn about you. No one can get their hands on this. It's a goddamn miracle nobody's found it yet, they could've killed a lot of innocent people by flicking that switch."

Tom opened the case. He studied the weapon inside for a moment, holding it carefully, turning it first this way, then that. It was a small, flat device, a dozen woven wires inside a smooth metal case.

"But they'll-"

"Let them come. Let those boogeymen come, see if I care. I'll fight, and I'll die, if I have to. But I'll die with the lights on." He snorted. "Never did much care for the dark."

Tom pried the cover off the case, peered at the wires inside. He nodded to himself, and set the device on the ground.

"You crazy son of a bitch," Fink was shouting at Mosby, turning purple from the effort of it. "That damn Gunner should've killed you, I should've put a damn bullet in your brain-"

"You tried," Mosby reminded him. "Leave the killing to the killers, Fink. You and your clean suited cronies stick to the Upper Stands, spend your caps, and fool yourselves into thinking you own this damn Commonwealth. Caps don't mean a thing in the end, one day you'll learn that."

 _Crunch_.

Everyone looked over. Tom lifted his heel and brought it down again. _Crunch_.

He looked up. "How many pieces did you want it in?"

"No!" Fink cried.

The stench of burning metal filled the air, as the Gunners started to carve through the office door.

Preston hobbled toward the other entrance. "We'd best get running."

Tucking her notebook away, Piper caught his arm and helped him along. "You gave some great quotes, Garvey, I'd love an interview with the last Minuteman in the 'Wealth."

He sighed. "Just buy me a beer and I'll say whatever you want."

"Deal."

Four figures gathered by the door, weapons at the ready. Mosby remained across the room, staring down at the look of surprise frozen on Regis' face.

"Mosby," Deacon called, "c'mon, time's a-wastin'."

Mosby swallowed the bile in his throat, raised his boot, and brought it down on the Gunner's throat. "See you in hell, you son of a bitch."

"You're just going to leave me here?" Fink called, his voice rising in pitch with each word. "With those animals?"

"You hired 'em, didn't you?" Deacon replied. "Sounds like a you problem."

_With that, our heroes broke open the Overseer office door and shot their way out of the vault. It was a tough fight, a few stray bullets nearly took this reporter out, but through sheer will and a bit of luck, they managed it._

_On the elevator ride back to the surface, they were quiet, contemplating. Wondering if they'd done the right thing, if they should've used the weapon against the Institute. If that was even possible._

_But, as they arrived on the surface in time to see the brilliant sunset light up the wasteland, shining over the rooftops of Sanctuary, reflecting off the river below, they realized they hadn't just done the right thing. No, more than that, they'd saved the Commonwealth._

_They'd kept the lights on for another day._

"Well," Piper said, "what d'you think?"

Her sister frowned. "You think people'll buy that?"

Piper's smile faded. "What do you mean, 'buy it'? That's what happened."

"Sure."

"Wha-Nat, are you calling me a liar?"

"Course not." The younger Wright headed for the door with a bundle of papers under her arm. "Just saying we sell newspapers, not comic books."

Across Diamond City, in an office down the alley marked by a glowing pink sign, Detective Nick Valentine looked up as the door opened.

"Well, look who it is," he said, setting down the file he'd been reading and waving with his cigarette. "Have a seat."

Fitz Mosby obliged, taking the seat usually occupied by Ellie Perkins. He absently tugged his sleeve down to hide the odd scar on one forearm, a cross surrounded by eight short lines.

"Piper's been spinning quite a story to anyone who will listen. Seems you found that weapon you were looking for."

"I'm sure she told the story just how it happened," Mosby replied. "No embellishments, misquotes, or anything."

"Noticed she hasn't said much about Fink. Talked a lot of talk about his role in under-the-table dealings, sure, I figured she'd be pretty pleased about that--she's been hunting down the fabled Diamond City black market for months. But I was expecting some great death scene, lots of final proclamations and 'Woulda gotten away with it's."

"My guess is he's dead."

"Your guess?" Valentine let out a startled chuckle.

"Didn't exactly stick around to find out what the Gunners were planning. I'm sure Piper didn't mention our grand exit was actually us turning tail and running."

The detective shook his head, bemused.

"Fink hasn't shown his face around here, that's for sure.  He'd be ripped apart in a minute for having anything to do with the Institute. It certainly didn't help calm anyone's nerves to know an ally of the 'Wealth's boogeyman was living right here in Diamond City." He sat back in his seat. "Well, what can I do for you? On to the next Vault-Tec mystery?"

"Nah, I'm done with Vault-Tec." His left fist curled, and he reluctantly added, "For now. I find I'm, huh." He paused. "I'm tired of killing and looting just to get by, doing dirty jobs for the highest bidder. Looking to try my hand at honest work."

Valentine raised a brow and Mosby continued, "Yeah, yeah, I'm going soft. But the 'Wealth needs more people like you, people doing good for the sake of it, not for the caps."

He fidgeted in his chair. _Damn, he was bad at this sort of thing. There was a reason he usually traveled alone._

"I'm not trying to take your gig, but, I dunno, maybe you can teach me a thing or two about not being a selfish bastard. That is, if you've still got cases you need a hand with..."

A small smile crossed the detective's lips. "Sure, I've got a few open cases. This city may thumb its nose at me and mutter about me like I'm an enemy spy, but they're more than happy to dump their troubles in my lap. And I guess I'm more than happy to take a crack at solving them."

"Some folks in Diamond City seem to like you. Love you, even. Like having their own personal gumshoe, prowling the Wastes."

"They would've loved Nick, the real Nick. And he would've loved them. But me?--I don't think this old synth is capable of love." Valentine scoffed. "Not sure my circuits can manage it."

Mosby was quiet for a moment, fighting the wish to speak. Fighting to stay silent. Failing.

"Used to think the same of myself," he said, and once he'd started, he might as well carry on. "Seemed anytime I trust somebody they turn on me, try to kill me. Want something I can't give. But sometimes you find a place, an idea, a person, maybe--and against all odds, against your better judgement, you find that veil you put up to hide yourself from the world has been peeled away. And you trust them, and they trust you."

He looked down at his boots before continuing.

"And it's not the sort of blissful married love they preach about, not the drunken fumble in the back of a bar kind of love, it's something else. A sort of camaraderie, a joining of kindred spirits, I guess." He glanced up to meet the yellow eyes across the desk and managed a half-smile. "That's love. Love of a place, of a people who gave you refuge when you needed it. Hell, if I'm capable of it, anyone and anything else is, too. Including you, Detective."

Valentine flicked ash off the end of his cigarette, studying Mosby with those eerily keen eyes. "You seem awfully sure of that."

"Well, I make it my business not to be sure of anything. Save up all my sureness for just one or two things. And this is one."

"What's the other?"

"That I'm tired of sentimental shit and could use a damn drink."

Nick scoffed again and rose to his feet. He extended a hand, and Mosby shook it.

"Well, partner, let's get you that drink. Then we'll try our hand at making the 'Wealth a little safer."

Mosby followed him out the door. "Long as you're buying."

Gumshoe, that was a new one.

A title he'd have to add to the list: scavver, gun-for-hire, common crook. Drunken rabble-rouser. Reluctant freelance Railroad agent. Even more reluctant Minuteman. And, now, gumshoe.

Trouble. He always found himself getting into some sort of trouble.


End file.
